Ethical Decisions For A Curator free porn video

Jennifer Marie Kornikova put her cell phone and charger into her purse as her high heeled lizard skin boots click clacked nervously across the honed marbled floor of the Nelson Art Gallery. "Good night, Mrs. Kornikova," the guard said as he touched the bill of his cap to her as she went by. "Good evening, Mr. Sommers," Jennifer said as she forced a smile she did not feel. She was trying to hide her concern over the phone call she had just received.

The guard, Nathan Sommers, watched her as she hurried out. He always tried to seem preoccupied with his job; watching the paintings and the visitors, to make sure they kept their respectable distance from the paintings.

He watched the reddish brown haired woman as she walked by. The dark lizard skin boots stopped just below her knees. The zippers along the sides were hidden by the leather, and did not do anything to distract from the view of her incredibly long toned athletic legs which were framed between the tops of the boots and the hem of her mid-thigh mini-skirt.

He tried not to look startled as she walked by. He couldn't help but notice that the bottom button, or so, was not buttoned. Was it an accident, or was it on purpose. Sometimes when these women sit with their legs crossed all day, they might work loose. Others are fairly brazen, enjoying torturing the older men who are hesitant to react to these sights. The sight didn't actually register completely as she walked by. He only realized it after she had passed. The draft from the air-conditioning had lifted the loose ends of the hem. Either that or the breeze from the doors opening and closing had let just enough of a gust through to flit the edges up as she walked past. Whatever it was, he had a glimpse, for a millisecond, of those tanned, tapered, toned legs practically to her crotch. Just for a second. Perhaps he had been too pre-occupied with the rest of her. Her long, reddish brown hair had been meticulously combed and parted down the middle. It had been separated into two braids; one starting on each side of her head and combined at the back of her head into one French braid that continued down the back of her and stopped just above the small of her back.

Most women in their mid-forties had long since cropped their hair to much shorter lengths. Usually somewhere during or just after the birth of their first child, there are too many things to manage in life. In school, they are all preoccupied with combing their hair and looking young. Once the children come, so many other things take priority, that the hair gets cropped for practicality.

Mrs. Kornikova seemed to be somewhat of an exception. With her daughter now in high school and driving, she had more time to herself. Perhaps in defiance, she had let her hair grow out again to the length in her youth. Once a fiery redhead, age had dulled it to more of a brown. It was rare for a woman in her mid-forties and gone through childbirth and the difficulties of life to have not dented her looks. The guard watched as she walked away. Her dark grey button front dress fit like a glove; no horizontal wrinkles. The front had no lapels; the top buttons were open to about the middle of her breasts. She didn't have much cleavage. Her melon size breasts were not huge. They were about as large as one could have and not sag without a bra. Mr. Sommers watched as her breasts jiggled; two bounces per step. What a sight.

He had seen her daughter; kind of a Kendall Jenner look-alike. She was beautiful, but in many ways, not a match for her mother.

Jennifer's appearance seemed to be a bit of a contradiction. On the one hand, the wire-rimmed glasses and tight hair-pulled back hairdo seemed to fit her work as a curator. On the other hand, the snug, short dress seemed more like something one might see on a woman half her age. It wasn't really her idea. Her daughter had been teasing and nagging her to change her appearance for some time now. Her daughter had taken her shopping and teased her into wearing some of her clothes.

It had been a slow and difficult career for Jenn. She had started out as an assistant curator. The main curator had been an expert ad verifying the authenticity of paintings and their worth. She had learned a lot from him. Now that he was retiring, she was at the brink of a step up in her career.

Jenn had been very uncomfortable dressing this way, but seemed bewildered at the change in the way she was now being treated. Since most of the administrations were older men, in office meetings, they seemed to notice her more. When she offered decisions, more and more things seemed to be going her way. Now her daughter had started to get her to color her hair more; adding slightly lighter streaks of brighter red to her now slightly brown hair. Jenn herself couldn't help but realize she did look a little younger now.

Somehow, since none of this was really her idea; the shorter dresses, hair coloring and exercise, she seemed more willing to tolerate the changes. "I'm doing this to get along with my daughter." She told herself.

"What was she thinking?" the old guard wondered. He could tell her smile and curt "Good evening," was not her normal cheery self. She was clearly preoccupied with other thoughts. "These damned teenagers can be a handful; especially when they just start driving." He said to himself in an effort to rationalize her lack of cheer.

He had no way of knowing that her concerns were not about her daughter's driving. It was about the phone call she had just received, asking her to meet her "cousin," Boris. She hated the bastard, but had tried hard to hide it for many years.

She had known her husband, who was considerably older than her, since she was a child. Their families had been close. Their marriage seemed like the right thing to do. It pleased both families.

Her husband's Grand Uncle, Bernie, had died several months ago. He had been a cranky old bastard to most of the relatives, but not so much to her. Jenny had maintained a life-long interest in paintings and had managed to visit most of the famous galleries around Europe during her college years. Her major in art history had made her intrigued with her grandfather's brother and his connection to art. It was a murky history. He was rather cagy and vague about it. But they always got along. While he tended to avoid most of his relatives, he often took her as a young girl around New York; discussing paintings, their origin and importance. He took her to a number of famous and prominent homes; showing her some of the most prominent paintings in private collections.

The Kornikova family had grown up in Germany and gradually moved away. Her grandfather had moved to Denmark; then to England, than to the U.S after the war. He had married her husband's grandmother, Anna, sometime after the war. It took a number of years after the war to locate his brother. "Grandpa" Bernie, wasn't really her husband's grandfather, but he didn't seem to know much difference when he was little, so the title stuck.

Bernie had skipped around the world somewhat after the war. Although he spent many years mostly in Denmark, he had slowly moved a great deal of his paintings into a small inconspicuous apartment in New York. It was a very innocuous art gallery with very high ceilings. The front 20'-0" or so, facing the street had floor to ceiling glass and displayed a number of paintings. Behind that it was mostly a double loaded corridor with many paintings stored out of sight. Above that was Bernie's loft, where he lived. He could see the outside and knew when anybody entered the Gallery. It was locked and only opened if he recognized the person ringing the bell. They couldn't see him, so any strangers usually thought the owner was out.

Most people never saw the paintings in storage.

Grandpa Bernie was a bit of a recluse. He never worked. He never invited anybody up to his home in Paris. He had some sort of a collection of artwork there too. He seemed to be able to collect items over the years. Occasionally, when money was tight, he might sell one of them. Nobody seemed to be able to track or account for what had been sold or to whom.

As a young girl, and a few times in high school, during visits to Paris, Grandpa would take Jenny around France. He would take her to the Louvre and other museums. It seemed to be their secret; he would take her to his apartment and show her a few of his paintings. There were Picasso's; Chagall's; and letters to and from Henry Matisse. As a young girl, she didn't recognize the names. As a college student, she hadn't initially put things together.

Things had changed too quickly to understand. Grandpa Bernie had died at the age of 96 from some kind of blood disease. He had died without any heirs; sort of. His will had been a surprise. He had willed his apartment (more of a condominium) and all its contents to her husband, Jonathan. He had mentioned it briefly in a letter to her. He had left everything to her husband, more for her than her husband. Jonathan knew nothing about art, but Jenn did. He knew she would understand and value the collection; which she had never really seen the full extent of.

Jennifer had gone both to the gallery in Paris and the one in Soho after Grandpa had died and gone through everything. Much of it was still crated up; hundreds of paintings. She had made lists of the names on the back of the paintings. Each painting was a separate document; with the record of who had bought and sold each one written on the back. It took Jenn a while to realize that most of them had never been sold or acquired after 1942, which was during the war. No art gallery was listed as the broker for the paintings; just the last owner.

Jennifer got off of the subway and went up the steps to the La Parisi Coffee House. She wondered whether the customers could hear her heart beating this loud? Nobody seemed to peek above their cell phones, their iPhone; their nooks; their notebooks, all operating on the Coffee House Wi-Fi. The men look up. Their eyes respond to any movement. If they hear heels, they wait to see what's in them. The women won't look up if a bomb went off.

She tried to hide her fright as she recognized Boris. Boris was technically another second cousin; of sorts. Her grandfather, his grandmother and Grandpa Bernie were brothers and sister. Jennifer extended her hand nervously to meet his. "Good afternoon, Boris. It's so nice to see you again." She said as she forced a smile. "Same here." He answered.

"Where are you staying while you're here in New York?" She asked, somewhat puzzled at the meeting.

"I'm staying here at the Regis, just around the corner." He said.

"Well, it's nice to run into you, but aren't you a long ways from home? What are you doing here?" she asked as they waited in line for their coffee.

"Well, frankly, I'm a little pissed because Uncle Bernie left everything to you; well, really to your husband." He said, trying to hide his bitterness.

"Well, I'm a little surprised as well." She said as she took her drink and dressed it up with saccharine and half and half.

"Have you got time today? I'd like to go to his studio/gallery in SoHo and go over some of his stuff with you." Boris said as he stared at her. Jenn didn't look up at him. She could feel his rage. She wasn't clear either about why her Uncle had left so much to her husband instead of to her or Boris.

"Sure, I can go there for a while, what's this all really about?" she asked, trying to mask her growing concern. Why had Boris really flown to New York? He wasn't really just there to pass time with her.

It was a short walk; about a block and a half. "What is it you want to see?" Jenn asked as she fidgeted through her purse for the key.

"Well, I'm not sure you know much about the paintings, Jenn. I just thought I would go over some stuff with you."

Jenn swung one of the pair of 3'-0" x 8'-0" oak doors open and held it as Boris went through. Jenn waved, swatting some of the cobwebs away from her hair. "I've got to clean this place up better and air it out a bit. I've hardly been her since Bernie died and the will was read. My husband could care less about this stuff."

"What now?" she asked.

Boris looked at her. His look seemed to say, "You really don't fucking know, do you?"

He went to the first set of gigantic doors on the double loaded corridor. He took out a key and opened the first door. He pulled out one painting and pointed to the back. "This is a Picasso. Know when it was done?" He pulled it out further on its sliding track. "This was done in 1924. Do you see who owned it? It was sold to the Rubenstein family. They have filed protests with the international community to get their possessions back. Simon Wiesenthal, the Nazi Hunter looked for it all his life." He pulled out the one next to it. "This one to the Goldstein family; 1926. All of these were done before the war. There are thousands of Jewish families; all protesting the looting of their homes. Where did those paintings go? Did you ever wonder? Did you ever wonder why or how Uncle Bernie got them? Do you ever wonder how so many Picassos are locked up in a nondescript gallery/ studio in SoHo? On the open market, these paintings are worth millions."

Jenny was stunned. It seemed to make sense now. She had never put together why Uncle Bernie was so secretive. He rarely took her to the locked rooms with the older paintings. Now she understood.

"You and your husband are the owners of looted paintings worth millions. The Nazi hunters; the FBI, the insurance companies will put you and your husband in jail for so long you will never see the light of day. Uncle Bernie was clever. He loved you and wanted you to have all of this, but he knew it was looted, plundered treasure. He left it to your husband, so if things were ever exposed, he would take the fall for owning it. On the other hand, he knew you would eventually discover the true value of all this. If you were ever able to sell anything, as the wife, you would get at least half. If your husband dies, the paper trail stops with him."

Jenn shivered. "How could this all happen to her? What would happen to her and her husband if they were discovered? What would happen to her daughter if they both went to prison?" She wondered.

"Surely something can be done about this." She said. "You know as well as I do, that Jonathan and I never knew about this."

"Well, you may not have known, but a good prosecutor will say it doesn't matter. You are in possession of stolen property." He said, trying to mask an evil grin.

"W ... w ... what ... what do ... do ... you want out of this?" she said, trying to compose herself and mask her terror.

"Well, for fucking starters, you need my silence. I will have this place watched 24 hours a day. If you ever try to move this shit, I will call the police immediately. You are fucking screwed if you do."

"I wouldn't dream of trying anything." She said, knowing that was probably the least of her concerns.

"What ... what ... what..."

She watched as Boris walked to the storefront glass and turned the chain to shut the louvers. Before she could finish, Boris took her arm and guided her to the end of the hall and up the spiral staircase at the back; up to Uncle Bernie's loft.

Jenn knew she was in trouble. Most women know or have a sense of it in that situation. She was going to get fucked. She knew it. She had known for years. Boris had always had a thing for her. She could see it in his eyes. That was why she had been hesitant to be alone with him. She looked around. The back of Uncle Bernie's loft unit was the bedroom. There were no walls in the loft unit. In the back, just in front of the spiral stair from below, was the bed area. To one side, opposite the bed was the bath area. There was a toilet in the corner. Next to the toilet, was the bathtub; only it wasn't sitting on the floor. The bathtub was up about 6'-0" off the main floor. Underneath it was a closet. There were steps along the side of the wall, leading up to the tub. The tub actually had a brass track about 6'-0" above the rim, holding a clear shower curtain. There were two shower heads sticking out of the wall. The handles to the water were centered along the wall, on the side of the tub, and the spigot to fill the tub was just below the hot and cold water handles.

Just beyond the bedroom area, on the same wall as the bathroom fixtures were half the kitchen counters. The other half were on the opposite wall. The dining room table was in between and big enough for about 20 people.

Beyond that was the living room area, facing the outside windows. There was a 3'-0" high half-wall at the edge of the living area that kept anyone from falling onto the gallery area below. From the living area, one could see the gallery, outside windows and doors. A person in the living area was somewhat obscured from the view of anybody ringing the doorbell.

Jennifer looked around, absorbing the scene in front of her. Boris moved up behind her and turned her to face the tub. She tried not to jump in alarm as he put his arms around her. Fighting her urge to resist, she put her hands over his as he cupped her breasts. "It's been a warm day and we've walked quite a way. Aren't you a little sweaty, hon?" Boris whispered. She knew. She had to have known once Boris closed the blinds.

"What the fuck choice do I have?" her mind screamed.

Boris could feel her heart racing as he twisted the thin fabric covering her left nipple. Suddenly her cell phone rang. "Saved by the bell." She told herself. Somebody was going to get her out of this. She could scream into the phone for help; to stop this rape. She froze when she heard the ringtone. "It's my husband." She said.

"Answer it." He said.

Jenny swiped the screen to shut off the ringing. "High, hon." She said, trying to sound cheerful and nonchalant. She switched the phone to her right ear and put her left hand back over Boris' as he continued to massage her right nipple. She struggled to keep her composure and not let her voice break as she spoke.

"Hi; no, nothing's wrong."

"Yes, well I left a little early and went to get coffee at La Parisi."

Jenn spun away from him and covered the receiver part of the cell phone.

"He wants to know where I am and what I'm doing. I'm supposed to be on my way home."

Boris extended his arm and curled his finger; indicating: "Come here."

Jenn took a step towards Boris. He turned her and pulled her towards him, wrapping his arms back around her again.

"Tell him you want him to come here. He needs to go over this shit too."

"H ... h ... hon; I'm ... I'm at Uncle Bernie's gallery in SoHo. I'm ... I'm here with Boris." Jenn tried to control her voice as Boris pinched her nipple. Again she tried to hold his hand still; neither encouraging him nor resisting. "He wants to go over some stuff about Bernie. Can ... can you come over?" Jenn thought if he got over there soon enough, Boris wouldn't have the nerve to continue. Jonathan would kill him.

"Please hurry honey. No; no, nothing's wrong. I ... I'm just hoping you get over soon. Bye."

Jenn hung up. Now what? She leaned back against Boris; both hands over his; trying not to let him squeeze her nipples; but feeling helpless to resist. "Please, Boris. My husband will be here soon." She had hoped Jon's arrival would stop everything.

"Well he's not here yet." Boris whispered into her ear. "It's time for a bath. You don't want to be all sweaty when he gets here."

Again, Jennifer was powerless to resist. Maybe; maybe if she just got on with it, it would be over before her husband got there?

Perhaps, she thought this might be the best option to avoid getting fucked. Maybe this might be a small sacrifice. It would be a way of stalling until her husband arrived.

Jenn put her hands over her face; perhaps trying to wipe the idea of what he was doing from her mind as she felt him beginning to unbutton her dress. "Please; Boris. Please don't do this. My husband will be here soon." The buttons were now open to her waist.

She felt him take her hands. He pulled them from her face. He placed them at her waist. "You do it. I want to see some cooperation from you. I want to see some gratitude from you for not turning your ass in. I want to see some fucking gratitude for not having your fucking husband go to jail the rest of his fucking life."

Jenn closed her eyes. Slowly she allowed Boris to guide her hands to the next button. He held her hands there. Her hands shook as she pushed the button through the eyelet. Slowly she worked her way down the dress; hoping perhaps somehow the miraculous arrival of her husband would stop all this. When the last button was open, Jenn struggled against the thought of what must come next. She pinched her arms tight against her ribcage; hoping to pin the dress to her.

"I'm not going to fucking tell you every fucking step." He whispered into her ear as he snaked his hands into her top and cupped her breasts. Jenn's shoulders sagged as she resigned herself to his words. She raised her head and arched her back as she slid first one shoulder and then the other out of the dress. She caught it as it slid to her waist. She brought it around in front of her in a hopeless effort of modesty.

Trying to prolong the effort, she brought the dress around in front of her and folded it in a tender absent mindedness effort to procrastinate. Boris took the dress and tossed it onto the bed. Jenn felt his fingers fumbling with the catch in the middle of her spine. Her cheeks reddened as she cupped her hands over her breasts. Her quarter-cup bra was the transparent nylon that pantyhose is made of. It was a ridiculous garment. Jenny had melon size breasts that did not need any support. Looking only at her breasts, you would think she was a teenager; at the verge of puberty. They cantilevered unbelievably. Her nipples were about 3/8" of an inch long and as pink as a number two eraser. The quarter cup bra did almost nothing to conceal her nipples. The cups were a weak effort at modesty. They had no function. "Why; oh why did I wear something as stupid as this?" She shuddered in humiliation. It was another silly interplay instigated by her daughter. "Oh, put it on, Mom. All the other mothers I know are wearing these things. You will just look smashing in it." Jenn wished now she had never listened.

She felt Boris take the garment from her and throw it again, on the bed. At first the embarrassed woman tried to cover up with her hands. Now she felt Boris lower his hands to her hips. Then lower. When his middle finger snaked inside her nylon hose, she jerked her hands down over his; neither stopping nor helping. It was an instinctive reaction to her embarrassment. "Ohh, noooo ... please, Boris." It was no use; she knew. Nevertheless, her modesty required the response.

She felt his finger enter; slipping and sliding; trying to find the soft, wet passage he knew was there. Again, Jenny cupped him; more out of embarrassment than cooperation. She felt his thumbs slide between her hips and nylon panties. Resigned that she could not stop him, she again raised her hands to cover her face as her shoulders slumped. She had no pantyhose; just the nylon panties. She felt them slide down and catch on the top of her boots.

Boris turned her to face him. "Now, you do me." He said.

Jenn was red as she moved her hands to his shirt. Her hands felt like they were made of lead as she worked her way down the buttons. She pulled the tails out of his jeans and pushed the garment off of his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. She looked up at him as if for a last minute change in heart as she put her hands on his belt. She could not take his pants off without removing his lizard skin boots.

She twitched and shuddered as she lowered herself to her knees. Boris sat on the bed and raised first one foot; then the other as she pulled off his boots. She stuck his socks into the boots and looked up at him. She was about to vomit as she reached for his belt. The brass snap behind the belt seemed to explode as she popped it open. Her ears were ringing as she slipped the tab of his zipper down.

She wanted to stand now to remove his jeans. She didn't want her face to be so close to his crotch when she pulled his jeans off. She started to stand, but felt a hand on the back of her head, forcing her face almost to touch his crotch. Defiantly, she locked eyes with him as she put her fingers between the waist band of his shorts and skin. He rose up on his fists as she pulled the two garments down past his hips.

Jenn tried not to flinch as the giant phallus cleared the top of his shorts. She didn't want to look intimidated, but the sight almost paralyzed her. "He's going to fucking split me in two with that thing." She screamed to herself.

She pulled his jeans off and tossed them onto the bed like she did this every day. Boris grabbed her two hands with his and pulled himself up. He led her over to the steps to the tub. Once she was at the first step, Boris stepped back and let her go first. Perhaps this was the chivalrous thing to do; walk behind the woman so if she falls, he catches her. Perhaps he just wanted a good look at her ass.

Jenn had the butt and waist of a fourteen year old boy; thin waist, flat washboard abs and thin hips. Her butt muscles flexed like a runner; no flab or wiggle to them. Again, her time with her daughter seemed to show. They had gone together often to the tanning parlors and tanned themselves all over.

Boris followed her up the steps, admiring her physique. When they got to the top, Boris pulled the plastic shower curtain back against the wall. He put the plug in the tub and started to fill it with water. Knowing she was out of options, Jenn turned to sit on the side of the tub and cross her legs. She unzipped her boots and left them beside the tub. She took her wire rimmed glasses off and set them on the stand beside the tub. She took off her triple strand of pearls and set them beside the glasses. Last were her pearl earrings. Jenn sat on the side of the tub; arms crossed over her breasts.

Boris got in and held out his hand to help her in. Their eyes met for a few seconds; she, ridiculously hoping for some sign of reprieve. He; dumbstruck with her beauty.

Boris had her right hand in his. He sat down in the half filled tub. She moved to sit opposite him. Instead, he pulled her down on him and turned her around so her back was to him. His legs were spread. He pulled her down on his lap. There was no way for her to sit without sitting ... on that thing ... that huge thing. She tried to sit on the top of his shaft; so it stuck straight out.

"Ouch! She heard him say. Uncertain what to do, Jenn froze where she was. "Move it." He said. Jenn blanched. She would have to touch it; but how? She raised herself a little. She grabbed it. It was so fucking big her fingers would not have gone clear around it. Using one finger, she moved it to lay it against his abdomen and struggled to sit back down on him.

"Ohhhhh ... yesssss!" she heard him sigh. She now had the length of his phallus buried in the furrow between her legs. She kept her feet mostly under her; so she wouldn't press down on him with all her weight. She kept her arms; her elbows on his knees to help hold her weight.

Again, she felt his enormous hands reach around and cup her breasts. He groaned as he massaged her nipples. "Get the soap, hon."

Jenn looked up. There was a big bar of soap just above the water spigot in the soap tray. She picked it up and handed it around behind her. Now she blushed as he began to massage her breasts with the soap. She gritted her teeth at the indignity.

"When will your husband get here?" he asked.

"It's about 20 minutes at this time of day." She answered. She felt his hands move. Now they were going down to her waist. He could not comfortably reach her vagina. "Lay back." He said.

"Please, Boris; I just told you my husband will be her any minute." She pleaded as she struggled with the command. Jenny lay back against him. Her head was just below his. Her breasts bobbed in the water; her choral pink nipples seemed to bob like fishing lures in the water. "Ohhhhh ... noooooo ... ohhhhh. Pleaseeeeee." Jenn turned her head slowly from side to side as she felt first one then another finger enter her. She closed her eyes trying to blot out what he was doing. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Her hands were on his knees for support. The: "Ohhhhhhhhh..." was more of an expression of humiliation and embarrassment than an exclamation of rapture.

Just when she told herself things couldn't get any worse, she felt him pull his fingers out. He put his hands on her legs; separating them. He pulled her left leg up and out of the tub; hanging her ankle over the edge of it. He did the same for her right leg, resting that ankle over that side of the tub. She felt his hand over hers; guiding it down between her legs.

"You do it." He said. Jenn almost jumped out of the water. She groaned in revulsion. She knew there was no way out. "Just get fucking through this before Jonathan gets here." Her mind screamed. She tried to blot her mind out as he guided her hand between her legs. He straightened out her index finger. With his over hers, he started rubbing her. He let up. She stopped.